Rumpelstiltskin

Remember the night, I came by
Came by to your bed and you dreamt
Dreamt of a man who could spin your nightmares
Spin them into enchanting feats of tales
That begin with kisses and end in laughter.
Nightmares grown as saplings, little plants
And now this overwhelming forest
Which threatens your sanity.

Remember the night, I came by
Like I used to many times.
Slowly you grew accustomed, dependent and hungry
You kept dreaming of me, hoping I could spin
I could spin all your fears into this wonderful joyous dream
A dream, that was beginning to have a life of its own
Like those nightmares, the forest they feed in
You kept calling, I kept coming.

Remember the night, I came by
And told you I was tired. That I can no longer hold
No longer fight your sanity. That you had to choose
Between my visits and reality. Worried me it such
That I stayed very long, that night. And you woke up
You woke up with the bed wet. I had to leave
You had to choose. Like everything and everyone
I too had a price, my love.

Remember the night, I came by
When I promised my exit forever.
Suffocating my love, under the sanctity of your existence
Stopping myself from calling out your name
And stopping from hearing your loud cries from the dark forest
I wanted to run to you, enter within and quiet it forever
Hold you close, never let go. You suffered. I saw.
But then you finally chose. I could finally come out your dreams.

Remember the night, I came by
And you went with me.



(This poem came out of a word (Rumpelstiltskin) given by a dear friend to help me get rid of my writing anxiety. Since this was impromptu, this was done in 10 minutes.)
:D

A Fair Deal.

After precisely 16 days, I am here, in front of this screen and a keyboard which is like a dose of sanity (or maybe insanity) to which I keep coming back. Too which I owe an honesty, a price for liberation and a duty. But I wonder now, liberation from what, because now, in this moment I have the best of life. But still there are these traces of sensitivity, reminders of vulnerability that make me seek the shelter of these words. Words, my words. I haven't written a poem in long now, which is making me feel slightly disconnected, poems come out of intensities and impulses, I guess I am waiting for one or have ignored some before.
So here it goes, I guess.



A saw, I took a chain saw
Plugged it in and turned on the switch
Cut off my left foot. Blood splattering
On the walls, the sheet, the plastic
Her statuette and my body.
Wrapped it up, and gave it to her
Hoping she will give what is promised
A fair deal.

A knife, I took a very sharp blade
Placed two of my fingers on the wooden board
One shot. Shouldn't be more. Blood flows
Drops where the foot should've been.
My needs and her promises.
I don't want much tonight.
These two will be enough a price.
A fair deal.

I need them, a bit like how they need me.
To hear different things. Tell different stories.
Stare differently. Laugh at me differently.
Every woman, I held in my arms was provided
Provided and taught. Taught to talk back
And subvert when desired. She gave me warmth
Dusted around the corrosive falls of my mind.
A fair deal.

They have a price. Have to take something
From me, which is mine. I give them
This body, which I can't feel.
Give them parts to devour and keep going
Fuel up and love me all over.
They like flesh, everybody likes flesh
They serve, as long as I serve
A fair deal.

More than Just Three Years.

I cannot help but cry and cry louder after I go through my 1,312 pictures which are all from this one place, College. MY college, MY Kamala Nehru. I always thought before leaving that I will embrace new experiences and everything in life, at the end, it is just a phase and  one HAS TO pass for another to come. But oh god, this was not a phase. These three years were way too much than a phase. They added the beautiful silhouette to my body, the deep fissures in my brain and the rare power to my voice. Living with 40 odd women everyday and speaking through our bodies and minds like there was not a care in the world. Like the world and universe within the premises of my college was the safest and the most liberating place in the world. Studying, not with just these hands and fingers, but through my existence as woman. Staying and breathing the air of a place that I never thought will become the most special and exclusive for me. I ACTUALLY have to struggle to write, because my hands are trembling and my eyes can't stop crying. It literally picked me up, pulled me out, fucked me up and gave a new birth. but enough about the education.

MY FRIENDS. Oh god please, let me live those afternoons once again when we would lie on our grass studded backs and talk mindlessly about sex. My women's sex life, about which I knew as well as mine. The warm feminine hugs, the touch and the most warm places in this world. The embraces in which I spent my three years so smoothly. The creative and philosophical struggles, the perfect music we'd find for it. And alcohol, which was the temporary solution to everything. And winters, I can never ever spend my winters any better in any part of the world. Because in those hours, and amongst those sweethearts we'd travel through spaces and dimensions of decades of womanhood. From the childish lovers to wandering bodies, from long curly tresses to short ones, from seniors that were epitome of a future we couldn't wait to be in to our own farewells, from transforming into gorgeous women to never forgetting the ugly little girls within us. The endless Nescafe talks and an all-time willingness to take pictures. My heart is still breathing that air and is not ready to come out of the place where I found companions for life. Realizations, hundreds and thousands of them spread across three years. Realizing that vanity is not a vice, its just being beautiful and enjoying your own skin (the reason why our post-grad mates always think we are over dressed), realizing that the most beautiful friendship is the one shared between women, realizing that anxieties of our heart doesn't shy away from falling on a caring friend. Realizing that I can never be alone in my battles and that no matter how low I fall or how high I rise my women will always be with me. Going to JLF, and dressing up as the hottest chicks in town and smoking up to our hearts content, and listening to Saumya sing. Feeling the utmost comfort in their company. Even bathing in the tub while three of your friends perform a short dance routine in the bathroom. Holding hands while crossing roads and strong grips while picking a drunkard off the road. Playing with hair and bodies like they weren't too separate from ours, and a special bond that is shared only with the same music lover.

I am in a great place right now, my dream college. Where I worked so hard to reach, but I have never missed my College so much. I have never missed Surbhi's warm lap to sleep much more than I do now. I have never missed Sukriti's 'unintentionally condescending look' as I do when I see how people dress there (AND GADI BHI). I have never missed Akki's abrupt and indefinite sense of humor which knew no bounds of social embarrassment, neither have I missed Mannu's soothing assurance "are kya hogaya, theek hai, chill maar" more than right now. Or Naireeta's loud break throughs in class and those highly relieving long talks. I terribly miss Ankita's stupid lingo, because it made me laugh nevertheless, and the quiet understanding between me and Tina. Never did I think I will miss Shivani and group's giggling behind my seat like I do when I am in class. I miss stepping into the staff-room and feeling like I am not in a strange place but in a room where mother-like figures and mentors occupy space.

I might be pms-ing, and that gives me all the more reason to be around my friends in college. But this will never go away, every time I wear the t-shirt/sweatshirt I will cry proud tears, as the place I turned into a woman was the most enchanting of all. And every time I come across anything even remotely related to College, I will burst out crying.

Hair.

A beat. A heart-beat. One after the other, back to back, every moment squeezed within its long and infinite seconds. Seconds of lying and staying stagnant on the bed. She could move, move away and then to a corner. Her hair were tangled in his hand, and was smothered way too much by his early morning bad breath. Invoking moments of strange whirlwind like years of childhood, and highly sexualized adolescent. This seemed completely natural and palpable. The arms of an unloving man, making love to a rotten desire, doesn't matter who or where. But it had to be making love, because sex or 'fucking' was too instinctive to feel ashamed of. It's experience is a little too natural to count as a decorative piece on the mantle of her neurotic display. But I guess habits die terribly hard, and she anyways had the most beautiful hair, she'd rather lie than damage them. Anyways there was a bald patch on her head, which she managed to hide it with her gift of wonderfully natural yet artificial hairstyles. A man had loved her too much, or said so. He liked hitting and pulling women's hair. Reminded him of his mother. Turned him on like a switch. 

They never put mirrors in rooms of her kind. Like others, looking at herself could and have done her a lot more harm than good. She had the most gorgeous curls everyone said, people would line up to take pictures with her vegetative smile and alluring curls. Soft and smooth, never tangled and dark brown. The way they fell on her big brown eyes, created a spectacle under sunlight. And laughter, glorious and loud, like a proud mother or a valiant sister. She laughed while flipping her hair from left to right, and vice-versa. The prettiest in the ward she was. But that was six months ago. It will be catastrophic if we showed her the mirror now. The curls, the laughter, the gorgeous eyes, they died a silent and apocalyptic death in 185 days. Her once plump frame was a rack of bones, many men liked such women so she laughed looking down at naked body. Pretty sure she can still make the world go round around her with those looks. But she hadn't seen the mirror yet. No one would let her.

Lying partially naked in his arms still. He, like every other man loved playing with those curls, round and round in his fingers. Ignoring the bald patch, moving swiftly in the effervescence of her beauty. Fingers running from head to eyes, and lips. Bending to kiss her pink lips, she wanted to kill him and taste his blood at that very moment. Bite off those stinking lips and sticky tongue and giggle with a bloodied mouth. But no, she will never do that. Only mad women acted so. Her mind was far from insanity, maybe her body wasn't. But anyways she let him kiss her, any way he wanted to. Rolling his tongue inside her mouth, biting lips or sweet repetitive kisses that are usually lovely. She had a belief, if she pleased men in bed, they would do anything for her outside it. But it took too much toll.

Eliza, was her name. She was 22 when her parents brought her here. People around wondered what could have happened at this age to turn her into this breathtakingly beautiful monster. Eliza talked with all the warmth and conviction in the world. She told stories of her childhood very willingly in group sessions. Highly effective was her presence for others. Vibrant and ecstatic, a contagious energy flowing across halls in the hands of a delightful humor. They could not understand why on earth was she here. Why was she brought here, what kind of a parent would do that. Yes, she had too many lovers. But every pretty woman has too many lovers. What did they do too her? Why did they want to take away the mirror from her room? Did she look at it too much or did she despised that universally loved face. Being beautiful is a suffering as spiteful as being ugly.

They didn't move all night. Not from the bed. Only to eat and wash, but nothing else. He was too much in love with her and caressed very deeply. Eliza was annoyed by now, but she had great patience in bed. She had to give men what they want, so she gets what she deserves. He kept playing and playing and playing and running his fingers in her hair. Unable to take anymore, a loud, very loud scream came out of her. It was followed by nothing, neither a laugh nor bunch of tears, just a very very loud scream. The worst kind. He looked at her, and turns out he was no different from the man who liked pulling women's hair. Grabbing the nearest knife, he held her hair in a bunch and started cutting. Her voice had died after the scream, all she did was move to run away but he sat on her back, like ghosts latch onto people. That night was the longest of Eliza's life.

They never found out was wrong with her. Until one morning, when she came to the hall. Her luscious curls gone and what was left were uneven soft strands on an egg-shaped head. Her eyes were swollen from crying all night. They kept asking what happened. Not a word came out of Eliza's mouth, until came the session and she told how her brother visited her a day before, how they made love, how he kept touching and kissing her and how he cut her hair. They looked blankly at her. She tried reminding them of the loud scream they might have heard. But blank still. She narrated the day to them again. Eliza had had no visitors that week. But she, in her sense would have never cut her tresses. They found out that day, why she was there. 

Infant.

Sitting in a pool of blood. Smoking a broken cigarette, ashes falling on it and disturbing the beauty of the most natural kid of red. The truest of all reds, not maroon, not bright or orange-ish. It is real and a blessing of nature. Blood in my hands and forehead. Some on my knees and completely drenching my feet and legs. on hair, where it all splattered, settles like water droplets do in rain. When after a walk in hard rain you hide under a shelter, the water remains on your body and hair. The blood is moving and settling on my skin and body just like that. Not unnatural, thoroughly pure. Unadulterated.

But whose blood is it? Mine or the woman in front of me with long nails. Is it the blood from broken fingernails or deep wounds from a long, very long fight. Whatever was it that put me here, whatever is it that I refuse to move and clean it all. Wash it away, adulterate it with streams of water. Is it mine? Or of the corpse lying right in front of me, looking exactly like me. With the same fuzzy hair and heavy bottom. With a similar waist  and breasts, exactly like me. Only her eyes are open in loss and death. Mine are open and staring at debris of a similar being.

I question for few more minutes as I finish my cigarette. The stains on it are of both nicotine and blood clots from my fingers. Stubbing it on the wet thick pool, I take a deep breath and try to push myself up. To stand, on my feet which hurt terribly. Like they have ran too long and too far, like they were in a strong and justified fight. First try, I fall right back into the puddle, and my face which was not so stained gets completely colored. A sly and disgusted smile, as it starts dripping off my chin. My legs are hurting more than I realized. I gather some strength to get up again. Wait for sometime and stare again at that mirror like corpse. I fear it might stand up before I do. But dead people don't walk and don't speak, I assure myself. Feeling surprised at the lack of even a small fragment of fear, I look around. It doesn't look like my room or any other place I could identify. Why would it. Such acts are not committed at homes or in places you inhabit. A long breath and I put my both hands on the floor. And the blood gets printed on them like alta, painted like dancers paint their hands before performances. It makes me smile again. One hard push.

Back on my feet I look around again. Think if I want to wash up. I will wash up. My hands are drenched in the blood of my own being. But which being? Where did she come from? Why did she have to die? Who exactly killed her? Since my memory begins from the very moment I lit the cigarette, how do I know what had happened to this woman like me? 'Like me', I ponder at this further. Was she really like me? If she was, why was she killed? And why do I have not a single fragment of fear or sense of loss looking at her? Was it me? How did she live, I know she did put up a strong a fight, I can see the bruises all over her. Walking past the corpse, these question race through my mind. And this loneliness, alone, like a new born woman, I feel a sense of freedom. Freedom to live a life which will not have damages like she probably did. I will be free from the marks that her skin has, not the wounds from this day, but before, like from a long battle-like life. I am free of them. All I have is her blood on me. Like a new born child has of its mother. I need to wash it off and gasp my first fresh air.

Staring at the bathroom mirror, I see my body completely. A full image, and I identify, see my hands and my face. It looks better after being cleaned up. But the only reflection I saw of myself before this was in the pool of blood. This is different. I like this one, I like her, the woman staring back at me. Leaving the corpse there, in my wet (but from water this time) clothes, I step out. Out of the room. And it opens to this virile and dry road. A path leading somewhere. But I step back in again, I feel like I have been born from this corpse, and like an infant needs to be around their mother, I need to stay with her too. But what will she feed me? I think again, what does she have to offer? A name probably, but I don't want her name. A life? But she is dead.

I keep staring at her perplexed and torn between emotions of elation and confusion. A feeling of disenchantment and renewal. A hope of a beginning and questions about the end. Standing there, not in the pool of blood, but right  next to the corpse. I take out a cigarette pack from her pocket, and light another one. If I smoke, probably she did too. But whoever and however she was. She is dead and wounded now. The burden and freedom lies on me. What do I do? Do I stay, or do I leave? And this now diminishing sense of freedom, what I am to with it, if I don't even know what to do with her. Bury her somewhere quiet or keep this figure of memories with me?

21 and Passion.

I will  be turning 21 this year, though my birthday is pretty fucking far but Anjali's isn't and it almost feels the same. '21' its pretty big, shadiyan kardete hain maa baap kayi ladkiyo ki, we are 'legally' allowed to attempt and exploit all the things that we are already done with. This is the age we fantasized about as young 15 year olds, being the certified grown-up. The age when you are really old enough to make fun of school kids having sex or boys in 11th attempting flirtatious passes. You are 21 now, and the fact that Bunty aur Babli was released EIGHT FREAKING YEARS ago makes you feel older. But the likes of me have always felt older. When I was 16, I always felt like a 20 year-old but obviously its amusing to think now, given the marvelous endeavors we take on teenagers. Oh yes, teenage is gone, it has been two years since you shooed it away. 21 means that the plans which you were socially engineered to implement, the 'plan' which has to clever and quick, should ensure a safe and good job, good bank balance and a possible groom. All this needs to set in motion from now on. But really, I feel even more liberated, I am a graduate now, that degree MUST HAVE, I have that now, and except the unlimited expectations and their burden we have on ourselves, nothing really binds me to do whatever the fuck I want. I can be like those cool carefree rich kids, who choose to travel and see the world for an year and then decide what they want, where they plan on going and how will they reach there. I can also sit and read for an year or two, but honestly I always found living through books rather vacant. If you don't have the experiences to let your mind run wild and feel enriched, how can you scent it with the journeys a book takes you on. And then I can probably get out there in the world (as my brother is suggesting) and work. Work and find my niche, lift every rock until I find my personal gem and see how dirty structures function. But I am not interested and already have an idea about the flaws of this shallow society.

There are quite a few things I have learnt till now, about life in general and through my education, which I can never thank enough. I have learnt that sex is sex. Its not love making, its not some epiphanic moment after which you want to spend your life with someone, its hormones, and they work beautifully and put your mind in one of the most exotic naturally induced highs. The stupid pretentious arrangement around it, in order justify some strange social construction of morality is what MOST young people call love. But I have experienced love, and I know its very different and sometimes you actually want to keep the carnality of sex away from that sanctified emotion because you don't trust yourself enough (but that's my issue). Love is not rosy, FUCK EVERYONE who think love is rosy and gorgeous and the meaning of life. They are side bars, that help you get through, and some people actually manage moving with no support WITHOUT being suicidal or terribly depressed. I have a couple of people I love, and my longest affair has been with my wife. We are set for life. No two ways about it. We are not scared (except sometimes), we know we are always going to be there, like internet and music. Which despite millions of earthquakes and heartbreaks you still turn towards. I have a man, who I love deeply and wish him all the love in the world, I don't want to possess him. Fuck, I am not so shallow, I value my relationship too much to actually taint it with stupid neurosis. I know he will be there, even if not like music and internet.

I have learnt that passion is the most important thing. Fuck whatever has been said about the fucking right path with all the stupid bulbs and streetlights and men with their Oedipus complex. Fuck all that. Passion is the essence of life. Screw everyone who said anything else. It could be writing, studying literature and finding the complexities of cultures untangle in front of you. It could be sketching or persuading people to buy or knowing how to sell. It could be humor or cooking, fucking or singing. Even running or skipping, sitting quietly on benches or solitude. Its all about finding your god damn passion and living in a struggle to fill yourself with it. BUT most passions don't pay, then find a boring job which makes enough money for you to be independent, then spend all that on it. I am still striving to get my head and hands in literature despite several failures, but FUCK THEM, they are all trivialities. I have learnt that screwing everything that ever bothers or bothered you makes you very happy.

And I have learnt that being alone is not SAD, its choosing AGAINST what the world and multiple sociological factors have decided for you. Being alone, is not lonely, its pretty relaxing rather, because you don't have those animal like sexual and social politics happening all the fucking time on every fucking phone call.

I have also learnt that words are beautiful, and I will spend my life to do right by them.

Patchwork.

One more snip
Another thread broke.
The cloth is not old.
My fabric is not weak
It gets pushed hard too much
Sometimes, not always.
But I know.
How to sew it back.
Different thread
Thicker needle, wider stich.
Slight gaps, revealing my skin.
Skin. My skin,
Fabric. Fabric of my being.
Is colorful.
With patches of rags and gold.
Some old, some shiny new.
Sewn together.
With a new thread, everyday.
Some by hair. Some by metal.
Its always strong.
But it breaks.
Sometimes, not always.
Days and decades.
Months and years.
Different weathers of
Summer and winter.
Different moods of
Heartbreak and puppy love
Different fights of
Failures and elation.
It sees and craves all this.
Even more, even too much.
It tears and melts down some places.
But I love to go on.
And I am not defeated easily.
My fabric is not weak
It gets pushed hard too much
Sometimes, not always.
But I know.
How to sew it back.